


ILYSB

by Coldersongs



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ballet Dancer Sherlock Holmes, Boys In Love, F/M, John Plays Rugby, Johnlock in love, M/M, Rugby Captain John, Sherlock Dances, Teenlock, University Student Sherlock, Young Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-22 14:44:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11382339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coldersongs/pseuds/Coldersongs
Summary: John's worked his entire life for his opportunity to become his full rugby-playing potential.Sherlock's the graceful dancer that he falls in love with.(Just another rugby playing John and dancer Sherlock fic)





	ILYSB

ILYSB (I Love You So Bad)

 

John Watson falls in love at seven years old as he tumbles onto the grass, the cool air sending shivers throughout his entire body. The neighborhood has disappeared around him as he lets his arms fall out wide on both sides. His small hands are caked with dirt, along with the rest of his body. The neck of his jumper has been torn and a few loose strings are tickling at his hairline, but he doesn’t move to scratch it. He lets himself lie on the grass as Mike Stamford dances around him, calls of victory echoing in John’s ears. He should be sad about the loss and his impending punishment when Harry tattles to mum that he’s run off again to play. But John still finds a way to smile, and it’s only when Mike extends a grubby hand that he finally stands up.

Mike is smiling at him, his hair sticking up every which way, his body tingling with the excitement of winning.  
“It’s called rugby. You like it?” No, John doesn’t like rugby. He loves it, and it only took one game in Mike’s front yard to confirm it.  
“Yeah,” John replies quickly, his body finally coming back into reality as he notices the setting sun along the horizon. He’s shaking Mike’s hand, although his eyes have now drifted to the ball. It fits perfectly in John’s hand, the memory of the material still lingering on his palms. “I loved it.”  
“Can you stay over tonight?” Mike asks. He takes the ball from his friend. John wipes his palms on his pants and shakes his head.  
“I can’t. We’re going to my aunt’s house for brunch tomorrow morning.”  
Mike laughs at his, holding the ball in his armpit as he uses both of his hands to tame his hair. “Brunch? That’s an old lady thing.”  
“That’s what I’ve been saying. I’ll see you at school on Monday, though.”  
“Alright, mate. I’ll see you then.” Mike shifts the ball from his armpit to his left hand as he goes to give him a high five. John misses, his attention on the ball again.

This time, Mike notices. His eyes drop to where John’s are aimed.  
“You can have it,” he says, extending the ball out towards John, who gets flustered by this and instantly feels bad, but he takes it anyway. He doesn’t know that this moment will change his entire life. The power he feels resting in his hand as he walks back home is just a prelude to the new John Watson, the one who decides to take residence for many years to come.

It’s at dinner that night that John speaks to his parents about rugby, his father grinning proudly as he cuts his steak. He tells John how he was once a rugby player in high school, and upon seeing the disappointment of having to wait that long on his son’s face, says that he’ll do some research into finding a kid’s league. John can hardly even eat his dinner from the anticipation. He lays in bed for quite some time that night, under the covers with a small flashlight as he runs his fingers over the stitching of the rugby ball. 

 

John is now fifteen when he joins the school rugby team. The coach makes a huge fuss out of his joining, claims he has a rare talent he never even believed possible. John knows all he sees are money bags when the coach looks at him, but he’s okay with it. He doesn’t care how much the coach gets paid, as long as he gets to play. It’s also around this time that he meets Mary, a pretty blond girl with a devious smile and captivating eyes. John’s absolutely smitten. And so is she, for the most part. Being able to walk around with the captain of the rugby team- the youngest in the school’s history- brought Mary a wicked amount of joy. It’s no surprise when they break up after three months. Mary’s fascination with his love of rugby has turned into jealousy as it begins taking up all of his time and energy. John feels some sort of relief when she leaves him, although he feels bad. At least he’ll truly be able to commit all of his focus to the sport.

-  
Things change when John enters university. It’s a prestigious school which would’ve bankrupted the Watson family if he hadn’t been so good at rugby. He’s able to study medicine there for free, as long as John plays on the team. 

“You can never miss a game, ever,” the coach threatens, his face looming over John with an intensity he didn’t even know could be reached. Coach Lestrade is one of those men who tries to live out his glory days vicariously through his players. Once again, John doesn’t mind. As long as he gets to play. While the rule creates an overwhelming amount of pressure on John’s studies, he does just as his coach says. Every day he’s either in the gym exercising or running laps on the fields. Every week, he finds himself squinting under the harsh lights of the stadium, his name being chanted from his fellow peers as he dashes across the field.

And oh, does it make John feel good. He forgets the constant pains in his shoulders even as he collides with players twice as big as he is. After every game he feels his entire body buzzing as he rides out the high of the win; the losses still seem to feel like wins to him. 

-  
One fall night into his second year he finds himself sneaking out of his dorm room, trying as carefully as possible to close the window without waking up his three other roommates. He shivers, an intense mixture of the cool night and his nerves. He’s about to do something he’ll probably regret, but it’s worth the risk. This means a lot to John, more than anything ever has, rugby included.

Coach Lestrade is still in his office, just as John hoped he would be. He takes in the sight of the trophy case as he slides in through the automatic doors. The array of awards send a twinge of guilt in John’s chest. He knocks twice on the door, going in for a third when the coach looks up from the collection of papers on his desk. He makes a beckoning hand signal for John to come inside. The player steps into the office, a polite smile on his face.  
“Watson! It’s past curfew, what are you doing here?”  
“Hey, coach. I just wanted to talk to you about something.” Instantly John feels like there’s a spotlight on him, glaring angrily in his eyes in the form of Lestrade.  
“Sure. Have a seat.” John sits down in one of the chairs and smiles politely again. Anything to make him feel a little less guilty.  
“I know that when I joined the team there was only one rule I had to follow.” Lestrade crosses his arms and leans back in his chair, his eyes focused on John’s. “I can’t miss any games. And I know it’s only my second year on the team and I’m up for the captain position next year, but I…” 

John trails off here. Takes a breath, closes his eyes. “I really can’t make it to tomorrow’s game.” He opens his eyes and clears his throat, trying hard to maintain eye contact with Lestrade.  
“Well, what’s so important that you need to miss the game for?” John freezes. He’s made it this far into his plea, but he’s now at a roadblock. He needs an excuse.

Every excuse imaginable floods into his mind, his confidence dam breaking under the pressure. Sick grandma, an aunt’s wedding, seven tests the next day. Nothing sticks, nothing feels right. But the truth? John can’t say it.  
“In all honesty, I can’t go into details. This is just really important. Please, coach, let me miss this one game. I’ll never miss anything again. I’ll even stay late after practice to help you clean up. I can come early before the next game to set up- just please. One game.” John pulls his lower lip into his mouth and silently prays for the first time in his life.

“Fine.” Lestrade doesn’t look pleased with his answer, but it’s enough for John. “You can miss this one game. But never again, Watson, do I make myself clear?” John allows himself to smile, a relieved smile as an audience roars in his brain.  
“Very clear, sir. Very clear.” 

With those last words and a few more “Thank you”’s, John leaves the office and walks back to his dorm. He could cry with happiness, but instead he just picks up his pace and sneaks back into the room, falling asleep quickly with a smile still lingering on his face.

-  
Two nights later, John finds himself on an incredibly long line at a theater a few miles away from campus. The atmosphere is electric as he waits, families carrying bouquets of flowers chatting away with each other. John feels left out as he stands alone in the line. He’s left to put his hands in his jacket pocket and look around the room as he tries- and fails- to avoid eavesdropping on the family in front of him. It’s a mother and grandmother, he presumes, standing with a young girl, who’s eagerly explaining everything that had happened at school the previous day. 

Minutes later John’s finally at the front of the line, handing the usher his ticket and making his way towards the auditorium. Almost every seat is filled. He had ordered his ticket first thing in the morning after talking to Lestrade, and by some sheer luck, he landed a seat only five rows back in the center section.. The people in the row stand up as he smiles and squeezes his way through to his seat. The smell of flowers is overwhelming, but John doesn’t mind. He just stares forward at the red curtain, watching feet scurry back and forth.

He wonders which feet are his.

He doesn’t have to wonder for long. The theater goes dark and the talking settles down as the lights on the stage illuminate the wood. The curtain begins to pull away slowly as the audience begins to applaud. There’s a group of girls on the stage, each one radiating elegance as they stay perfectly still in their poses. A sweet flute begins to play and the girls slowly begin to move, their feet seemingly gliding on the floor. 

They’re just mediocre to John.

They dance along, their posture rigid, and they form a small huddle towards the back of the stage- a more graceful version of a rugby huddle, John notes with a smile. They break apart.

And there he is.

John instantly finds himself sitting up straighter as Sherlock emerges from the crowd. He’s dressed in a tight black body suit, his silk pink shoes glowing with the light. His face is serious as he makes his way towards the front of the stage, his eyes closed in concentration. John thought on his way here that he’d have to restrain himself from jumping up in cheering. But in the moment, John is frozen, his body numb as he falls into a trance watching Sherlock dance. 

A larger group of girls arrive on the stage, creating chaos as puffy white skirts run around. Amidst this chaos, John sees Sherlock, his eyes now open and scanning the crowd. For a half a second John believes he’s looking directly at him, a small smile appearing on his face. But then a line of girls passes in front of him and he disappears. He reappears a few seconds later as he goes leaping across the stage, his legs looking longer than usual as he flies. This causes a small round of applause through the audience. 

The dance goes on and then ends, the stage going dark. John fears that it’s over. But it’s not. The lights come on again, this time casting a light green tint on the stage as another song begins. Sherlock’s not in this one, or the next one, or even the next one. John checks the program in his hands and realizes there’s only one song left now. 

A purple mist fills the stage as Sherlock’s familiar frame appears, but this time, he’s alone. It’s his solo, John realizes, a smile coming to his face, the solo he’s been working on for so long. It’s absolutely mesmerizing. Sherlock glides across the stage becoming one with the music. This song was made for him- this entire night was made for him. He’s a star. John gets lost in his movements, a warm feeling going through his body- one of pride. The tempo picks up suddenly, the echos of the orchestra causing John’s heart to beat a bit faster as Sherlock begins to spin.

He spins, and spins, and spins, and spins, his hair becoming a beautiful tornado atop his head. Sherlock falls to the floor and John’s heart drops a little, until he realizes it’s the end of the performance. The curtain begins to close and John’s the first one to stand up, clapping loudly and shouting praises. Sherlock stands up and takes in the view: a standing ovation. He bows and runs off the stage. The applause doesn’t stop. The curtain is fully closed now, then some music begins playing over a speaker. A woman starts reciting names into a microphone as ballerinas rush onto the stage to bow and wave to the crowd. They come up in groups of three or four, until Sherlock’s the last to be called. Of course, the crowd grows louder and John’s smile grows wider. He watches as Sherlock takes the hands of the girls still remaining on the stage and takes another bow, the smile on his face somehow wider than John’s. 

In that moment, John forgets the guilt that had been weighing on his shoulders all day. The rush he gets from watching Sherlock dance is more intense than any victory he’s ever celebrated. He’s always been proud of his own accomplishments, but right now is the most proud he’s ever felt. He feels alive, his feels so warm, so in love. 

-  
By the time John arrives at the Holmes household, the party’s already in full swing. Music is playing from an unknown source as bodies move around to the rhythm. John feels nervous as he walks through the front door. The party started ten minutes ago, but due to an impromptu shopping trip, he wound up being late, arriving with an overstuffed plastic bag in his hand. He hopes Sherlock isn’t disappointed in him, but then remembers that John’s presence at the performance was a surprise and feels slightly less guilty. He makes his way through the crowd, recognizing most of the girls from the performance as they laugh and dance together.

Then, he spots Sherlock. He’s talking with a group of girls near the staircase. He’s changed into a pair of jeans and a dark purple dress shirt. He takes a sip from a beer bottle and says something to the girls, then leaves the group and heads up the stairs. 

John runs his hand over the banister in familiarity as he follows Sherlock up a minute or so later. He turned to the right and heads down the hallway towards the last room. He knocks twice on the open door and Sherlock snaps his head up, a smile creeping onto his face.  
“John! What’re you doing here?”  
“I came to support my favorite dancer, of course.” Sherlock stands up, a grimace on his face as he puts pressure on his bruised feet. But he ignores the pain and wraps his arms around John’s neck, resting his chin on John’s shoulder. John wraps his arms around Sherlock’s middle and holds their bodies together, the plastic bag falling onto the carpet with a muted thud. “Let me take a look at your feet,” John finally says, letting go of Sherlock and placing a kiss on his forehead.  
“Why do you want to look at my feet? Is there something I should know about you?” John laughs and rolls his eyes, then sinks to the floor and goes into the bag.

Sherlock sits down across from him and takes off his socks. Yellow and purple mark his feet and distort his pale skin.  
“Let me know if this hurts too much.” John pulls two small ice packs out of the bag and gently places them on Sherlock’s feet. Although Sherlock winces at first, he begins to relax as John holds the packs on his feet. It’s then that John truly admires Sherlock. His shirt fits him well, John notes, and the deep purple of it somehow makes Sherlock look more graceful and beautiful than usual. His curls are coated in a light dusting of glitter. The only lighting in the room comes from a lamp on the opposite end, casting a dramatic shadow on Sherlock’s face.  
“I can’t believe you’re here right now,” Sherlock whispers. He leans back so his weight is resting on his palms as he tilts his head to admire John. “But don’t you have a game tonight?”  
“Yeah, but I talked to Lestrade yesterday and he let me skip the game.”  
“Lestrade? I don’t think we’re thinking about the same Lestrade here.”  
John laughs and reaches back into the bag. He takes out a box of band-aids and a tube of cream. “I was surprised too,” he says, taking the ice packs off of Sherlock’s feet and placing them to the side. “I’m never allowed to miss another game and I may have told him that’d I’d help him out before and after the next few games.”  
“You’re gonna regret that.”  
“Yeah, I know. But it was worth it.”

Sherlock’s cheeks flush pink and he smiles softly as John puts a few dots of cream on his various blisters and starts unwrapping the bandages.  
“You were absolutely amazing out there tonight,” John continues. He’s finished putting the bandages on Sherlock’s feet and goes back into the bag. “I felt bad that I didn’t get you a bouquet or anything and the store was out when I went. But I did steal these from the bushes outside of the campus gates.” He pulls out a handful of flowers, an array of them of different colors.  
“John, that’s probably illegal.”  
“They never said specifically that I couldn’t take some flowers, now did they?”  
“Fair point.” 

Sherlock inches his body closer to John’s and rests a hand on his shoulder.  
“You’re too good for me, John Watson.”  
“No such thing.” John brings their lips together and closes his eyes, bringing a hand up to caress Sherlock’s neck as they kiss. It’s a subtle movement, but Sherlock melts under his touch. The pain in his feet has disappeared as a new feeling takes over his body- love.  
“I love you,” Sherlock whispers as he breaks the kiss and rests his forehead against John’s.  
“I love you too. We should get back downstairs, shouldn’t we?”  
“Just a few minutes longer. I don’t want to leave you.”  
“I don’t want to either. But shouldn’t you make sure nobody breaks your house?”  
“Fair point,” Sherlock says again, pulling his head away and gently putting his socks back onto his feet. “You have no clue what ballerinas are capable of.” John laughs and stands up, extending his hands towards Sherlock to help him up. “I better see you dancing down there, Watson.”  
“Rugby players aren’t known for their dance moves.”  
“I know you’ve got at least some sense of rhythm. I’ve seen that body move, you know.” Sherlock winks and kisses John’s cheek, leaving the rugby player to blush a bright scarlet.

John jogs down the stairs once he’s gotten his face back to its normal color. He stands against a wall at the bottom of the stairs and takes the opportunity to thoroughly scan the room. There’s not one familiar face around the room. He even double checks the kitchen to make sure of this fact. There’s not one person from the university here, and the thought makes John smile. He makes his way back into the living room, loud music thumping in his ears. He sees two girls sitting awfully close together in one corner and a pair of boys full on making out in another. And no one seems to pay attention to them. It’s okay to do that here. It’s safe. John takes a shot glass from someone’s hand and swallows it down, then makes his way into the belly of the dance beast. There he finds Sherlock dancing, much differently from his time on the stage. While the beat of the music doesn’t give off an elegant feeling, Sherlock’s body moves with a grace almost just like his dancing during the ballet, though the dance is much more disorganized. Sherlock briefly stops dancing when he sees John coming this way.

“I didn’t expect to see you in here!” Sherlock shouts, his voice raised in an attempt to be heard over the music. John just smiles and tugs Sherlock by the hand, catching him in a kiss. When they break apart, Sherlock is breathless. “You are just full of surprises, John Watson.” John begins to dance then, a funny dance. Unlike Sherlock’s movements, his are slightly jerky and even more disorganized. Sherlock laughs and begins dancing next to him.

In that moment, John feels free. His body is moving in ways he’s never thought possible. He allows himself to throw his head back and let the music wash over him. He’s got a crowd of supportive people surrounding him and his beautiful boyfriend by his side.

John Watson has never felt so good before.  
****

Sherlock slumps into the lecture hall the next morning like a zombie. His feet are still sore and he’s missing John’s touch. Students pile into the hall and Sherlock winces at their chatter. He’s just slightly hungover and his senses are heightened immensely. His nose catches a strong whiff of coffee and he lets out a deep breath of air. A hand being placed on his shoulder startles him, his muscles tightening, ready to defend. They loosen when they see John’s smiling face.  
“You’re alive?”  
“Barely,” Sherlock replies as John sits down next to him. “You?”  
“Barely.”  
Sherlock turns his body so he’s facing John, who has begun unpacking his bag. “You really went hard last night. You danced the whole time.”  
“Shh!” John whispers, then sends an embarrassed smile his way. “I was doing something very important last night, not dancing, remember?” He winks and flinches as someone says his name behind him.

“Watson! Where were you last night? We got our asses handed to us on a fucking golden platter.”  
“Lovely metaphor, Moriarty, how long did it take you to come up with that one?”  
“Watch it.” Jim speaks with such confidence that John almost feels compelled to apologize to him.”We needed you last night. I bet Lestrade is pissed at you.”  
John pops his jaw at this, completely not in the mood to deal with his teammate. 

Jim Moriarty made it onto the team at the same time John did, and while they were on a civil level for a while, Jim was always jealous of John. It wasn’t a secret at this point. Even Lestrade noticed the jealousy and sometimes made comments to Jim about it- which, of course, strained their relationship even further. 

“I talked to Lestrade beforehand, and he was fine with it.”  
“What’d, you offer to help out after games?”  
“And before.”  
“That’s a kiss-ass move. I expected you to be more of a dick sucker than an ass kisser, Watson.”  
“That’s more than enough, Moriarty,” Sherlock says, reaching his final straw with the boy. Jim doesn’t reply, just smirks and turns his attention to the front of the room. The professor has arrived now, and Jim knows well enough not to mess with this man.

After the lesson, John packs up his things at lightning speed, Sherlock almost dropping every paper in an attempt to catch up. He jogs up the stairs after John and catches him by the arm. They’re out of the building now. Crowds of students walk across the courtyard, none paying attention to the interaction between the two.  
“Don’t let him get to you,” Sherlock pleads as John slows his pace down slightly.  
“He hasn’t gotten to me.”  
“John, I know you. It’s written all over your face. And you’re doing that thing again.”  
“Please stop reading me, Sherlock.” John knows exactly what thing his boyfriend is referring to. He loosens his grip and winces as he unclenches his fist, his fingernails leaving half-moon dents in his palm.  
“I just think missing the game was a mistake.”  
“I just wanted to support you. I can’t let Lestrade or Moriarty or anyone get in the way of that. I won’t.”  
“And I love you for that.” Sherlock lowers his voice for that as the two walk across the courtyard. “But I know how rough the team can be, and they won’t let you live down the loss.”  
“I know, and I accept that. I have to go meet with Lestrade for a bit, but I’ll meet you at the studio tonight?”  
“Of course. And thank you for giving me a lift home later, I really appreciate it.” 

John longs for the party as he watches Sherlock walk away. He longs for his touch, the new feelings he experienced last night as he let loose and let himself fall more in love with Sherlock. He thinks about it all day, throughout every class, especially biology when he has a seat across the room from him. He’s able to admire Sherlock’s studious face, his delicate curls falling into his face he writes in his notebook. 

-  
John pulls into the parking lot as a flood of dancers are coming out of the front door. None of them pay him any attention as he walks into the studio. He didn’t see Sherlock in that crowd, and knowing Sherlock, he’d probably still be inside dancing. A light flowery smell floods up John’s nose as he enters the studio, not finding Sherlock right away, but seeing a woman sitting on the floor putting a pair of sneakers on.

“Can I help you with anything, dear?” she asks. She looks so small in the middle of the empty room. She’s old, but not old. John places her in her mid-sixties maybe. She has a dancer’s body, her thin arms somehow muscular with fairly wrinkled skin bunching at her joints.  
“Um, yeah, I’m looking for Sherlock. Is he around here?”  
“Oh, he’s just in the back room changing.” She stands up and walks across the room towards John, a friendly smile appearing on her face. “Why, are you John Watson?”  
John’s taken back by this, a look of confusion on his face. “I am, yes.”  
“Oh, it’s so lovely to finally meet you! Sherlock’s talks about you so often, it’s lovely to meet the infamous John Watson. I’m Mrs. Hudson, by the way, Sherlock’s instructor.” Mrs. Hudson extends a frail hand then laughs, pulling John into a warm hug. “Sherlock told us that you attended our showcase the other night? What did you think of it?”  
“It was absolutely lovely.”  
“I’m so glad you enjoyed our performances. I hope to see you in the audience next time around.”  
“It all depends on my practice schedule, but I’d love to attend another one.”  
“Yes, that’s right! Sherlock told us that you are quite the rugby player. In fact, he said you’re the greatest player in the world! What is it he compared you to, I can’t remember.” Mrs. Hudson places a finger to her chin and squints her eyes. “Oh! He called you the ‘Michelangelo of rugby’.”  
“I’m just a decent player, I don’t know if I’d go that far.”

“He’s just being modest, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock arrived from the back room, a messenger bag slung over his shoulder. He smiles and turns to the mirror, messing with his hair a bit before crossing the room and placing a kiss on John’s cheek. “You truly have a talent, John.”  
“What a beautiful and talented couple you two are,” Mrs. Hudson says with delight, clenching her hands together and placing them over her heart. “I have to run off now, but you’ll lock up for me, Sherlock?”  
“Of course. I’ll see you next week then.”  
“It was so nice meeting you, John. Please, stop by again soon, dear.” John is so stunned from the interaction that Sherlock has to nudge him with his elbow to make him reply with a quick “You too, Mrs. Hudson!” as the teacher disappears through the front door. The two are silent for a moment, then break into fits of laughter as they process the conversation.

“She’s a delightful woman,” John comments, wrapping an arm around Sherlock’s waist and placing a light kiss on his lips.  
“She really is. She’s so important to me, I’m so happy you two finally met.” Sherlock takes John’s hand and slowly begins pulling him towards the barres at the back of the room, tossing his messenger bag to the side. “I had this image stuck in my head the other day of you doing ballet and I’d love to see it become a reality.”

“Sherlock, I have as much grace as a one footed elephant.”  
“That’s a very specific metaphor-which I’m slightly concerned about you coming with so quickly. Come on, I’ll just teach you some basics.”  
John smiles and gives in, letting Sherlock guide his hand into the correct position on the wooden bar.  
“There are five simple positions in ballet, generously named first through fifth position.” Sherlock faces John and holds onto the bar, demonstrating and stating the position’s number out loud. John watches his feet move and feels comfortable that he could do that. So, he tries, and discovers that a one footed elephant was the perfect comparison to his level of grace. Sherlock’s face grows red as he laughs, placing a delicate hand onto his stomach. John doesn’t feel embarrassed by this, he just smiles and laughs along with his boyfriend.

Then someone comes through the front door and John’s laugh falters. Coach Lestrade is there with a young girl clinging onto his hand. The way his looks at John makes the player’s skin crawl as he suddenly realizes just how close he is to Sherlock, how he has unknowingly placed his hand on top of Sherlock’s on the bar.  
It’s neither player nor coach that speaks first, but the young girl attached to her father’s hip.  
“Sherlock! Have you seen my bag? I forgot it!” She runs over to Sherlock and the dancer crouches down, a smile on his face.  
“I’m not sure. But why don’t we go look for it.”  
“Alright!” Sherlock takes her hand and leads her to the back room.

John can’t breathe. Lestrade just looks at him.  
“So this is where you’ve been running off to? This is what you missed the game for? You’re a ballerina?” Lestrade spats out the words like they’re sticky on his tongue.  
“I’m not a ballerina.”  
“Well, what are you doing here then?”  
“That boy, Sherlock, is my..” John trails off, taking his hand off the bar to scratch the back of his neck. The neck of his jumper has a few strings poking out that have been tickling him all day, and he twirls them around twice. “My boyfriend. Sherlock Holmes is my boyfriend.”  
John can breathe again. To say the sentence aloud feels great. He wouldn’t even mind saying it again, so he does. He wants to scream it across the dance studio, his words penetrating the glass and spreading down the street. He wants every pedestrian’s ears to echo the sentence, every shop to stream it over the speakers. But instead he settles for another repetition of it, this time adding “And I love him.”

Lestrade doesn’t say anything, not for a while. In reality it’s only a few seconds of silence, but to John it feels like an eternity.  
“Love is a powerful word, Watson. It’s incredibly powerful, and it’s not something to use as an excuse.”  
“I’m not using it as an excuse. I just want to say it. And it feel really fucking good, doesn’t it?” Before Lestrade can say anything, Sherlock and Lestrade’s daughter come walking back into the studio, this time the girl sporting a bag in her arms.  
“You ready to go, sweetheart?” Lestrade asks his daughter, his eyes still on John.  
“Yep! Bye Sherlock!” She goes running over to the coach and the pair leave the studio.

Sherlock looks at John with fear in his eyes. John just smiles at him in return and pulls him by the hips into a deep kiss, this one meaning more than any other kiss the two had shared.  
“You’re alright.” Though hesitant, Sherlock doesn’t poise it as a question. It’s more of an observation.  
“Yeah, I’m more than alright. We’re more than alright.”

-  
John wordlessly arrives at the field precisely at 4:15 the next day, only giving Lestrade a bold smile as he takes a can of spray paint off the metal bench the coach is sitting on and sauntering away. He knows the field and its setup inside and out, so he goes to measure the placement of lines. The game doesn’t start until 7; the team doesn’t arrive until 6:30. They all clap John on the back as they pile into the locker room, welcoming smiles on their faces. Unlike Moriarty and Lestrade, they seem to have forgiven him for missing the game. 

And John feels especially good as he puts his uniform on, chatting idly with his teammates as they get ready and warm up. And when Lestrade brings them together for a pep talk, he actually listens to what the coach has to say. This game makes or breaks the future for the team. If they win, it’s onto the playoffs they go and one more puzzle piece is put in place for their run to the championship. If they lose...John doesn’t even think about that. They’ll win. They have to, and they will.

The game is going well. The crowd’s chanting fills the stadium with a certain energy, one that John is used to, but this energy is turned up ten notches. John gives his all into this game, breaking into a sweat within the first fifteen minutes from his spurts of energy. He’s a star tonight. He knows it, the crowd knows it, Lestrade knows it. 

It isn’t until the last ten minutes of the game that things start to go wrong. John fumbles on an important play and feels every head in the stadium watching him as he lets out a string of vulgarities. He can hear his team yelling at him from the sidelines, and can see Moriarty’s sweaty face judging him as he makes his way back to their side of the field. John briefly contemplates apologizing to Moriarty and the rest of the team, but instead puts his game face on and gets in position for the game to start again. 

As he’s waiting, he looks into the crowd. He sees familiar faces from various places across campus. Molly, his lab partner in biology, stands with a group of friends, all oozing of school spirit in their green and white colors. He sees a few of his own teachers at the front of the audience leaning against a metal railing and cheering on their students. He sees a head full of curls wearing a jersey that John recognizes as his own practice jersey.

And that’s the last thing he sees before the ball collides with his face, his nose making a sickening popping sound as the crowd simultaneously lets out a distressed noise. It takes a moment for John to process the pain. It’s only when Sherlock disappears behind the group approaching him that he lifts a hand up to his nose. When he removes it, he sees blood. Everything happens in flashes next. He sees snippets of the crowd craning their necks to get a better look of the incident. Lestrade, red-faced and huffing is a few feet away arguing with the official over an “unfair call”, as he describes it.

He’s being helped off the field now. Someone hands him a rag and he holds it under his nose. It’s quickly becoming heavy in his hand as it soaks up his blood. His head is ringing with pain and exhaustion, the world slightly fuzzy around him.

The nurse helps him as much as she can. She knows John by sight from his various minor injuries over the last two years and places a delicate hand on him and ushers him to sit down. Her touch reminds him of Mrs. Hudson’s. The bleeding stops a few minutes later, and since John is still shaken up, he’s sent back to his room for the rest of the night. He fumbles with his keys, his mind flashing back to the unforgivable move he made. He had the ball in his hands, but his fingers must have not been wrapped all the way around it. He groans as he closes the door behind him and sees a light on in one of the rooms. His room. He makes his way over to the room and sees a figure sitting crossed legged in the center of his bed.

“I guess it’s my turn to take care of you now.” John smiles at Sherlock as he enters the room. Sherlock had turned on the lamp on John’s bedside table and lit a few candles around it.  
“Oh, Sherlock,” John whispers. He looks in the mirror leaning against the wall and runs a hand through his hair. He runs a finger cautiously over his bandaged nose next, which unsurprisingly causes him to jolt back in pain.  
“Just don’t touch it for a bit,” Sherlock says with a laugh.  
“Where is everyone?” John asks as he pulls off his jersey, the smell of sweat muted thanks to his damaged nose.  
“Out celebrating. You won.”  
“Hip hip fucking hooray.” John takes off his shoes and socks. He tosses them carelessly into a corner on his side of the room, then crawls across the bed towards Sherlock. The rugby player places himself in the dancer’s lap, John’s legs wrapped around Sherlock’s waist.  
“You were amazing out there tonight,” Sherlock says, then places a sweet kiss onto John’s exposed collarbone.  
“Thank you. I don’t care about the game, I just care about you and me right now.”  
“Couldn’t agree more.” Sherlock sends John a sly smile before using his hands to guide John’s face to his and presses their lips together, letting out a soft sigh to show his happiness. All of John’s pains disappear as Sherlock’s shirt does, the two breaking the kiss for a moment to let John pull it off over his head. Before they reconnect their lips, they look at each other. An unspoken promise fills the space between them and the silence around them. Both boys want to declare their love, but it doesn’t even need to be said. 

They can feel it as their lips come back together and Sherlock presses their bodies together before giggling against John’s lips and flipping him over onto his back. They can feel it as their bare bodies become tangled in the soft sheets of John’s bed. They can feel their love deepening as the world around them disappears. It’s just Sherlock Holmes and John Watson- the dancer and the rugby player- just as it was always meant to be.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there,  
> I've been trying to write something johnlock related for a long time and here I am-with the unoriginal idea of rugby playing John and ballet dancer Sherlock. I was kind of irritated at myself for choosing such an unoriginal idea to write about, but I honestly fell in love with my own story and characters  
> So here we are  
> I'm hoping to start a book here at some point filled with other (hopefully more original) johnlock "oneshots" but I just have this to offer for now  
> Thanks so much for reading!  
> -Mel


End file.
